Released July 2012
Bitter news leads a San Diego widow and widower to true love—and to a scheme to marry off their adult children, a plan that goes deliciously awry.
Gaetano Lorenzo was the sweetest man that the widowed Estelle Bennett had ever met. That morning began terribly, with awful news, but now the owner and head chef of a local San Diego ristorante was offering up Italian delights: red wine, delicious food, walks on the beach, laughter when she’d never thought she’d laugh again…. Estelle felt twenty-five. She and Gaetano had found the recipe for love, and a simple variation might just get their adult children to settle down, too. A scoop of sugar, two ladlefuls of lust, a pinch of deception and a whole 24 oz.-can of danger— Suddenly, ingredients were coming from everywhere! But kitchens are crazy places, and variety is the spice of life. And for anything to get cooked, things have to get hot.
Shirley Ann Wilder
I dream a lot of my novels. Literally. Though I haven’t published them all.
My love for the written word apparently started before I went to school. I was the youngest of six children, and my brother, three years older than I, struggled a bit when he entered first grade. The teacher sent home books for him to practice reading, and I was evidently fascinated by the idea that those funny-looking marks actually meant something. I nagged everyone in the family to tell me: “What’s this word?” “What’s this say?” By the time I started kindergarten, I already knew quite a bit. In those days, children under five years old could ride the bus for free, and because I was short Mother figured she could save a nickel. Imagine her chagrin when passed me off as under five, I took my seat and proceeded to read all the ads posted inside the bus!
Even as a small child I knew I was somehow different, and elementary school was less than a positive experience. My parents separated, and my mother became the sole support of the four children still at home. My escape was the school library. They had so many books, and I could read them for free. I especially loved Walter Farley’s series with the Black Stallion. In my fantasy world, I was the kid riding the Black Stallion, and I was the person who rescued My Friend Flicka. My love for horses was almost as deep as my love for books.
I began writing stories on the inside of brown paper grocery bags, complete with illustrations, but I couldn’t understand why no one could read them properly. Then my mother pointed out that, when you begin a new sentence, you have to start it from the left side of the paper every time. I had written from left to right and then from right to left, and so on and so on. It still makes sense to me. Think of all the time you could save!
When I was eight I convinced my neighborhood pals that we should all write books and sell them to make money to finance our Kool-Aid stand. I ended up writing their books as well as mine, which I pretty much plagiarized from a library book. Of course, our only buyers were parents, so little harm was done. I sold my book to my mother for five cents—the bus fare I’d saved her! After she died, when my sisters and I were getting her house ready to put on the market, I came across a box of photos and keepsakes. In the box was my book, The Talking Toys. My mother had saved it all those years. I doubt that anything I have written since or will write in the future will have the same impact.
In high school I wrote poems. They were a lot shorter and didn’t require a plot. Some were about dreamy boys who didn’t give me a second look. Some were about wild horses that roamed the prairies, and later, after I was married, I wrote poems about my children. I went through short periods where I didn’t write at all. Being a mom, a den mother, a Bluebird leader, a backyard swim instructor and on the PTA board took almost all of my time. But I never could quit completely. I found I couldn’t NOT write.
I finally got serious about writing after joining Romance Writers of America. It opened a door that I hadn’t known existed, though the knowledge wasn’t immediately happy. I went to my first conference and came home a bit dejected. I had thought I was the only one who really wanted to publish a book! I don’t know where I’d got that idea, but seeing over 2,000 people with the same dream as mine set me back a bit. This writing thing was not going to be so easy. It was going to be even harder because I write less from an outline than from intuition. I become every character in my books. When they get cut, I‘m the one who bleeds.
And yet…all that bleeding has paid off. While writing is the hardest thing in the world, it’s also rewarding. I recently sold my novel, Too Many Cooks, to Boroughs Publishing Group, and it’s out now! It came from a recurring dream I had for several nights in a row. I think I was on one of my endless diets, and food was on my mind a lot. But, the story worked. I hope you think so too.
So, for all you struggling authors out there, don’t give up your dreams. Write them down!
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TOO MANY COOKS
Copyright © Shirley Ann Wilder 2012
Estelle Bennett hesitated at the door. It was slightly ajar, and the doctor was on the
phone. She’d obviously gotten dressed and walked over to his office faster than he’d
She waited out of politeness and debated if she should knock to announce her
presence; then the conversation riveted her in place and she couldn’t help but listen to
every word. Dr. Robert Taylor’s voice was not its usual deep, rich baritone. Estelle had
known the man for over twenty years and to her he was Dr. Bob, a friend as well as her
physician. She could tell he was fighting down emotion.
“You’re absolutely sure there’s no mistake? It’s leukemia for sure? Oh boy, this is
She had come in for a follow-up appointment and to get the results of some tests the
physician had taken two weeks ago. She hadn’t been sick, just tired. Estelle leaned as
close to the crack in the door as she could get without bumping it open.
“She just went through an ordeal not long ago, so if you have no objections I’m not
going to tell her yet. God, I feel like the grim reaper. Well, we’ll get some meds started
and then I’ll break it to her. In some cases, I don’t think it’s unethical to delay delivering
a death sentence.”
It took Estelle a few minutes to recover after Dr. Taylor hung up. She raised her hand
and was just about to knock when he buzzed Nurse Marlow at reception.
“Betty, would you have Mrs. Bennett wait just a few minutes before bringing her to
my office? I’ve just gotten some terrible news, and I need time to compose myself before
I see her.”
Estelle’s heart was in her throat. Oh, God. That call was about me. I have a terrible
disease. Leukemia. She felt her body go from clammy to scorching hot. The urgency to
get out of there overwhelmed her. She wanted to run, to hide, to…
Dr. Bob had said he wasn’t going to tell her today? Well, too late. She already knew.
Panic commanded her feet to move, and they obeyed. She almost knocked Betty over
as she bolted down the hallway, through reception, and out the front door. She heard
someone calling her name but didn’t stop. She had to be alone.
She scarcely remembered getting in her car, but she must have, because she was
driving down the freeway toward home. Suddenly, though, she didn’t want to go there.
She took the next off-ramp and found herself in the area where her husband’s business
office had been. If there was ever a time she needed a drink, it was now. But it was only a
little past three in the afternoon. Still, what difference did it make if she broke her
cardinal rule of no drinks before five o’clock? It had to be five somewhere on the planet.
She pulled into a small strip mall and parked her car in one of the spaces while
thoughts of what might be in store for her bounced around in her head. I’ll probably have
to give up driving one of these days. Hope it’s not too soon. But, why not? The sooner it
comes, the sooner I’ll be reunited with Marty.
But, what about Alex? At twenty-nine, her only child was still floundering. He had
no clear direction and no real commitments.
Emotion welled up so Estelle pushed it down. She had cried enough, and she
certainly wasn’t going to break down in public. Leukemia. It wasn’t really an ugly name,
not for such an ugly disease. It sounded more like a houseplant. Oh, look how beautiful
my leukemias are! Have you ever seen such blooms?
She was dying though. From a disease that didn’t bloom, but instead drained the
body of all strength and vigor.
She pulled the car key out of the ignition and then sat for a few minutes. She’d have
her drink before phoning the doctor to explain her odd behavior. He’d said he was going
to start some meds. They’d probably have instructions stating, “Do not drink alcohol or
operate machinery.” She’d always been a stickler for rules, but since she hadn’t taken the
medicine yet, this could be her last drink—or two.
Estelle got out of the car, set the alarm, and walked to the entrance of Gaetano’s
Ristorante. She’d been by the small Italian restaurant a million times. She and Marty had
intended to go there for dinner but never had; it had been the wrong time or he was held
up at the office or it had been one of a thousand other excuses for not doing all the things
they’d said they would do one day and never did. Typical.
The minute the door closed behind her, scents of basil and garlic bread mixed with
the heavy aroma of pasta sauces and cheese, tantalizing her taste buds. Skipping lunch
hadn’t been a good idea, and now her mouth watered while involuntary growls escaped
her stomach. How could she eat after learning that she had so little time left on earth? But
if she didn’t eat, the glass of wine—or two—would go straight to her head.
She chose a small booth barely large enough for two, but she wasn’t a part of a
couple anymore so she had plenty of space. Scooting into the seat, she smoothed her skirt
over her legs. She’d worked hard at keeping her figure. She’d kept it all right, but for
what? For whom? Well, there had been plenty of interest from men, but many of them
were her friends’ husbands. She’d never felt comfortable around those particular couples
afterward. Did the wives know?
Think of this in a positive way, she commanded herself. At least I’ve been put on
notice and can get things in order. How many people get that chance?
She didn’t know exactly what the treatment would be, but she’d already decided that
she would save Alex the agony of watching the day-by-day dying again. They’d both
watched Marty struggle for life. The procedures had been painful, but he’d fought like a
tiger. The end had come well over a year ago though…and yet, when she let herself go
there, it still hurt.
It bothered her that Dr. Bob couldn’t tell her the truth about her condition. Did he
think she wasn’t woman enough to take it? True, she’d been to hell and back during
Marty’s illness, so it was logical that their old friend would want to protect her. Marty’s
death had been hard for him too. They’d been golfing buddies for years. Maybe this was
his way of dealing with it.
When Alex finds out, he’ll want to hover over me, she realized. I wonder if Dr. Bob
will tell him before he tells me. Could he do that? There had to be some ethical rule
stating that the patient is always told first. Wasn’t there?
She tried to remember if she’d been the first to know about Marty or if the news was
given to them both at the same time. Marty’s illness had been such a shock. She’d been in
a fog for weeks before she came to grips with it, and there were still time segments that
remained blocked from her memory.
That made up her mind: She was going to keep her condition a secret for as long as
she could. When the effects of the illness became obvious, then she would tell Alex.
There was no point in burdening him with this so soon after his father’s death.
Of course, she wouldn’t wait too long, but she needed to get a few specific things in
order. Would he want to move into her place? His townhouse was nice but not as large as
her house. On the other hand, he’d been away from home a lot and the upkeep of a home
the size of hers took considerable attention.
In spite of herself, she felt a lump settle in her throat. The inside of her nose began to
burn just like it always did when tears couldn’t be held back, so she reached for the bright
red napkin on the table in front of her. It had been folded in an intricate manner so that it
stood at attention.
A white apron with tomato splotches appeared at her side, and Estelle flinched.
“I’m sorry,” a rich, deep voice said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. May I get you
something? Iced tea, coffee?”
Estelle dabbed at her eyes, then turned to the man wearing the apron. He was fairly
tall, and he had beautiful dark hair accented with silver. His deep brown gaze met hers,
and she couldn’t remember when she’d ever seen such soulful eyes. His face held
“I could also offer you a glass of wine, if you’d prefer. A nice Chianti? Or something
“Yes, that would be wonderful.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve had quite a day and my head isn’t screwed on right I’m afraid. A
Chianti will be fine.” She needed something heartier than a white to bolster her courage.
The man didn’t move. When she looked up he averted his gaze then peered at her
with worry in his eyes. When he spoke Estelle detected a slight accent.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to intrude, but…” He flushed. “Never mind. I’ll be right
back with your wine.”
Gaetano Lorenzo hurried to the bar and filled one clear glass with his very best
Chianti instead of the house brand. This was what his daughter always complained about,
really. She said he let his heart rule his head and thus gave away the profits. But, what
was wrong with being concerned? That poor lady back there was obviously in some kind
of distress. He couldn’t help it if he was just naturally curious about people. His
restaurant had been the meeting place for many lost souls, and he liked to think he’d
helped many of them find each other. He’d made them all a little happier. Too bad he
couldn’t work the same magic on his daughter. At the rate she was going, he’d be an old
man before he got to bounce a grandbaby on his knee.
Young women today. They wanted the big career and waited for marriage until they
were almost too old to have babies. Even if Gina fell in love, it could take years before
she settled down to matrimony and motherhood. Gaetano wanted that to happen sooner
than later. Mama mia, it was so much easier in the old country. The parents arranged
everything, and everyone was happy. Here in America, his daughter Gina couldn’t even
cook! Rosie was surely rolling in her grave.
He took the wine back to the table and set it down in front of the woman. She wasn’t
wearing a wedding band. Not that it was any of his concern, of course, because he
certainly never intended to remarry; this was just more of his curiosity. And there was
nothing wrong with playing cupid or being interested in people, no matter what Gina
said. Rosie had always been a people person too. They’d made quite a team.
Gaetano was so wrapped up in his thoughts he barely heard what the woman said.
“Sir? A menu, please.”
“Oh, forgive me. Yes, of course.” He fought back embarrassment. She must think I’m
crazy—or worse yet, incompetent.
He sprinted to the back of the room, took a menu from the stack on the counter, and
returned with a smile as he handed it over. At the same moment, his first dinner waitress
came through the door.
Good, he thought. Debbie could take over. For some reason this sad lady was making
him uneasy. He excused himself and retreated to the kitchen.
Estelle pondered the menu. It had been a while since she’d had any real appetite, but
just reading about these entrées stirred her taste buds. She took a sip of wine then
upended the glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp.
“Did you decide what you’d like?”
The little blonde waitress who’d come to take her order was so perky and cheerful
that it was all Estelle could do not to strangle her. Instead, she smiled. “I haven’t quite
made up my mind. How about bringing me another Chianti?”
“Sure.” The young woman took her empty glass.
Estelle looked around at the interior of the restaurant and admired the fact that real
plants and not plastic ones adorned the window boxes. The tables were covered with red
checkered cloths, and each featured a live centerpiece: a bright red carnation in a bud
vase. Before she’d finished her assessment of the room, a full glass of wine appeared.
Well, she grudgingly admitted, the service was good. That was important. When you
didn’t have a lot of time, you needed things done in a hurry. Or, should a person take
more time to savor each moment?
From speakers she hadn’t quite located, Placido Domingo’s beautiful tenor voice
filled the room. Estelle listened in silence. Ah, yes, it was his solo from…what? Suddenly
she couldn’t remember. That must be part of the illness. Loss of memory…and then how
much time to the end?
Damn it! It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve this. All her life she’d followed the rules,
and in the end none of that mattered. Because the end came, like it or not.
She turned in her seat to get the waitress’s attention; she had to go home and get
started on her plans. Forget dinner.
“Where is that girl?” she muttered.
“Your waitress is seating some customers, but I took it upon myself to make some
selections for you.”
The voice surprised her, but not as much as the fact that the man who’d seated her
was now standing at her table with a fully loaded tray over his head. He lowered the tray
and began placing dishes on the table.
“First, a little appetizer. Then salad. Then the entrée, it is one of my masterpieces.
Chicken Marsala. And a fresh bottle of wine.”
Estelle was speechless and then shocked as the gentleman sat down opposite her.
He’d lost the apron, but his eyes were still soulful and staring straight into her.
“Aren’t you the chef?” she asked. “When I saw you earlier you were wearing an
apron. I just assumed…”
“You were correct. I am one of the chefs.”
“Can you leave the kitchen like this?”
“Ah, but I am also the owner. Gaetano Lorenzo.” He leaned forward and pressed his
lips to her fingertips, his eyes twinkling with mischief. She offered her hand in return to
“I called in another chef,” he admitted, “so now I can have dinner with you.”
Once more Estelle was at a loss for words. She looked around to see who’d
witnessed this act of…whatever it was, and she saw that the restaurant had begun to fill
up. There was no longer just the one waitress but several, and all of them looked busy.
The shades at the windows were lowered, and candles were lighted at each table. She
must have zoned out listening to the opera.
“I l-like your music,” she stammered, hoping she didn’t sound as dumb as she felt.
“I’m glad. This selection is Placido Domingo’s aria from La Traviata. Not everyone
cares for classical. I think opera is something you must develop a love for.”
“Oh, yes, I believe that too. My late husband never took the time. After going alone
so often when he couldn’t get away I finally let my season tickets lapse.”
“What a shame. The opera was my wife’s passion, but we also got too busy. We
spent so many years getting the restaurant going… Ah, you know how it is.”
“Does your wife help out now?”
The minute the words were out of her mouth Estelle instinctively knew she’d put her
foot in it. Gaetano’s face fell.
“Oh, no. Like you, I am alone. I keep busy—” The man stopped abruptly. He waved
his arms in the air and unfurled his napkin. “What are we doing? Our food is getting cold.
Eat. Eat!” he scolded.
Estelle smiled and picked up her fork. She couldn’t recall when she had such a
handsome dinner partner. She squeezed her eyes and blinked, keeping tears at bay while
she tried to eat. She didn’t have much time left to enjoy meals with anyone, especially
someone as nice as this.
A short time later she was saying, “That was absolutely delicious, Gaetano, I can’t
believe I ate so much!” She really couldn’t.
“What are you saying? You eat like a bird.”
“Yeah, a big bird. I haven’t had much of an appetite for a while. It’s no fun cooking
“I suppose not. But don’t you have any family who visit you?” He seemed genuinely
“I have a son, but I don’t want him to feel he has to look after me. Although, he does
enjoy a good meal. Here, let me show you his picture.”
The restaurateur pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket. “I also have just one child.
Let me show you my Gina.”
Estelle continued to flip through her bag, finally coming up with a small leather
photo case. “This is Alex. He’s twenty-nine and still running around the world taking
“Your son is a photographer?”
“Yes, I guess he makes a fair living with the magazine he works for, but it’s time he
settled down and got a real job. Stayed in one place. Got married and had a family.”
“Ah, I know exactly what you mean,” Gaetano said. “My Gina is big-shot attorney,
but she’s never home either. I spend all my time talking to her answering machine.”
They exchanged snapshots.
“Oh, my. Your daughter is very pretty,” Estelle realized. It made her think of
something else. “Can she cook as well as you?”
The restaurant owner stared intently at the photo of Alex, perhaps seeing a perfect
candidate for the beautiful Gina as Estelle had done with Gaetano’s daughter for her son.
He must have realized that her question was still hanging in mid-air, however, as he
spoke in a rush.
“Cook? Gina?” He laughed. Looking once more at the glossy print, he seemed
wistful. Maybe he was imagining a little boy or girl with Gina’s dark hair and Alex’s
green eyes and dimpled chin. That’s what Estelle was doing. But handing back the photo
Gaetano shook his head. “Oh, sure, she can cook up a storm, but she has so little time.”
“I think that’s the way it is with young people—always rushing,” Estelle agreed. A
big sigh escaped her lips. “I worry that he doesn’t eat properly. He, unlike your daughter,
can’t even boil water.”
Gaetano made a strange face. As if eager to change the subject, he nodded toward
Estelle’s photo and said, “I think he has your eyes, and maybe your smile?” He handed it
back to her.
“Perhaps. I just wish I could be around when he finally settles down. That’s not
going to happen.”
Gaetano seemed amused. “What are you talking about? He’s not that old. He will
find some lovely lady and pop the question, and you’ll be a grand-mama before you
Estelle could no longer hold it in; the tears she’d swallowed came rushing back in a